Les Ravages
by CowgirlMile
Summary: The rise and fall of Abby's marriage to Richard...
1. Default Chapter

This is my take on the destruction of Abby's marriage to Richard. From the fanfics I read, everyone seems to think that they didn't get along from the start, that it was a marriage of convenience, and that it was destined for failure. However, from what I've seen, and from the way Abby has spoken, I don't think that's what happened. This is my version of the downfall of their marriage. Clearly no spoilers here. Comments, constructive criticism welcome. If you don't like Abby, I'm really not interested.  
  
And, a second small note, the title, Les Ravages, is French, from the expression faire des ravages which literally means "to cause ravages," but is actually a slang expression for "to break hearts." Interpret as you wish.  
  
TITLE: Les Ravages AUTHOR: Alyssa DATE: January 18th, 2003 SUBJECT: Abby angst SPOILERS: If you've seen "Where the Heart Is," you're fine. Even if you haven't, you're probably still fine. RATING: PG for some sexual innuendo, possibly some language later on DISCLAIMER: They're mine, mine, mine! All mine!! And if you want to sue me, it is clearly very much worth your trouble, because I don't even have enough money to rent a movie at Blockbuster. Why do we bother with these anyway?  
  
Les Ravages  
  
Chapter One: Le Bonheur de Vivre ~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Why don't you and I get together and take on the world and be together forever? Heads we will and tails we'll try again, so I say why don't you and I hold each other, and fly to the moon and straight on to heaven. Cause without you they're never gonna let me in." --Chad Kroeger  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Abby," a voice says. "Abby."  
  
"Mmm," I groan, rolling over. Damn. I hug the blanket's warmth to me, as if it will somehow delay the inevitable.  
  
He laughs. "Abby, come on," he says, gently kissing my lips. "It's 7:00."  
  
I open one eye to look at him, nearly blinded by the lamp beside the bed. "What day is it?" I manage groggily, lifting my head weakly.  
  
"Tuesday," he chuckles.  
  
I flop back against the pillow, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand. "I have hematology at 8:00."  
  
"I know," he says smiling. I close my eyes again. "Come on, Abby, let's go," he wheedles. "Go get ready; I'm making breakfast."  
  
I sit up very slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm so tired," I sigh, dragging my legs over the side of the bed. I don't move for a long moment, adjusting to the not-so-pleasant feeling of being upright.  
  
"Maybe we shouldn't stay up so late," Richard says, winking mischievously.  
  
I grin, remembering last night. "It was worth it," I assure him confidently.  
  
He nods. "It certainly was." We stand on opposite sides of the room, drinking each other in-me in my flannel pajama pants, disheveled black tank top and messy bed hair, him dressed for work in a neat suit and the tie I got him for Christmas.  
  
He crosses the room and kisses me passionately. I lose myself in his lips, his hands, and for a moment I forget about my hematology class, and the eight hour nursing shift I'll have to work afterwards. I forget about making ends meet and staying sober and quitting smoking and taking care of my mother, and all I can comprehend is his fingers in his hair and his tongue teasing mine and his arms wrapped around my back, holding me, loving me.  
  
A sudden burst of music shatters the silence and we both jump apart. I laugh. "My alarm clock," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "See, you woke me up too early!" I joke, hitting him playfully.  
  
Richard tugs on my long brown hair. "Get dressed," he says, firmly but cheerfully. "Omelets in ten minutes!"  
  
"Oooh, omelets," I tease as he walks out of the room.  
  
I emerge 12 minutes later, having managed to dig up a pair of semi-matching blue jeans and blouse, brush my teeth, and yank my hair into something that resembles a ponytail, to find an omelette and a mug of coffee waiting for me on the table. "God, you're the best," I say happily, sinking into a wooden kitchen chair and digging in. "Hmm, mushrooms!"  
  
He grins, sitting down across from me and neatly chopping his own omelette into small squares. "Well, you're cooking dinner tonight."  
  
Mouth full of eggs, cheese, and mushroom, I manage, "I'm on till eight."  
  
He smiles. "I win," he says, sighing dramatically. "Eight-thirty."  
  
I stick out my tongue, nearly choking on a mushroom in the process. "Be that way."  
  
We eat silently for a moment. "What's your schedule Thursday?" I ask. Our second anniversary.  
  
He sighs, this time unhappily. "I'm on noon till midnight."  
  
I nod, unsurprised. Being a surgical intern sucks. "That really kills the day, doesn't it?"  
  
"Brunch, maybe?" he offers.  
  
I shake my head. "Hematology at eight, internal med at ten, neurobiology at four, and my study group's supposed to be meeting sometime in between."  
  
"That's right," he says contemplatively. He thinks for a moment. "Saturday?" he says suggestively. "I'm off."  
  
I consider this. "Me too," I say, smiling.  
  
He raises his eyebrows. "Wow. First time that's happened in a while, huh?"  
  
I purse my lips and consider this. "Yeah," I giggle. "I don't even remember the last time."  
  
"Yeah, it was probably last summer," Richard jokes. "So, what shall we do?"  
  
I smile. "Surprise me," I offer.  
  
"I like that idea," he says. Our smiles fade.  
  
I take another bite of my omelette. "It's only going to be a couple years," I sigh.  
  
"I know," he says, grinning weakly. "And it'll be worth it."  
  
"Yeah," I say, beaming. "We'll open up our own practice."  
  
We both get lost in the dream we've shared since I announced my intention to go to medical school. The moment is destroyed when I glance at my watch. "Shit!" I cry. "I'm gonna be late."  
  
I run to the bedroom. "Bag," I say to myself. "Bag, bag, bag."  
  
"Couch!" Richard calls.  
  
"Right!" I say, running to the couch and grabbing my black bag, slinging it haphazardly over my shoulder. "Books.Where did I leave those?"  
  
"Desk!" Richard says. I swear he finds this funny.  
  
"Why are you so organized?" I yell, grabbing the small stack of textbooks and notebooks from the desk in the living room.  
  
"Have a good day!" Richard calls as I make it halfway out the door.  
  
I run back inside, my books nearly falling out of my arms. "Love you!" I say, pecking his lips and turning back toward the door.  
  
"Love you, too!" he shouts after me, laughter ringing in his voice.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Happiness is like Coke-something you get as a byproduct in the process of making something else." --Aldous Huxley  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I find it mildly amusing that the first thing we want to do on our only day off together is sleep. For hours and hours and hours. Long weeks-or maybe it's months; I've lost track-of working 16 to 20 hour days have that effect. When I finally open my eyes at 11:30 I'm almost surprised that the sun is peeking through the gold and teal curtains Maggie made us as a wedding gift.  
  
Lying in the quiet of our bedroom, with Richard breathing evenly beside me, I let my mind drift back to our wedding day, two years and two days ago. It had been a beautiful April day, the sun shining brightly, the air warm and summery. We'd been married by a justice of the peace in the backyard of Richard's family home outside of Chicago. When I think of that day, I think of the smell of roses-there were so many of them surrounding us, white and pink and red and yellow. Maggie was there, on her medication consistently for the first time in years, although it didn't last long after that. She'd made my dress, and it was gorgeous-long, flowing white silk, with detailed embroidery. I'd never owned anything so pretty.  
  
It was just us there, in that beautiful garden-Richard and I, Maggie, Eric, Richard's parents, three younger sisters and grandmother. Richard and I had kissed for the first time as husband and wife in the sun-dappled morning, then run out of the backyard as his shrieking sisters threw rice over us to a waiting car, and a vacation to St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands, the first and only time I'd ever been to the Caribbean. We're planning to go back soon, though-as soon as I'm a doctor, and Richard's finished his internship, and we don't have to worry about money.  
  
Richard's breath on my neck brings me back to reality, and I smile, turning my head to meet his lips. "Happy anniversary," he whispers huskily.  
  
His hand trails seductively down my side. "It's not our anniversary," I say breathlessly.  
  
"It is this year."  
  
He rolls over onto me, his eyes glowing with desire. "Rich."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
We have a picnic lunch at the lake, lying on a blanket together in a sea of emerald grass eating turkey sandwiches and sipping sparkling apple cider, talking about everything and nothing. It's very romantic, really-well, in the grand scheme of things.  
  
"I'm proud of you, Abby," Richard says, lifting his champagne flute in a toast and indicating the bottle with his other hand.  
  
I smile happily, clinking glasses with him and taking a sip. "Thank you," I say. I turn toward the sky, watching a bird fly lazily overhead. "I am too."  
  
He touches my cheek affectionately. "Good." He swirls his sparkling cider thoughtfully. "Is it getting easier?" he asks seriously.  
  
I consider that for a long moment. When I'd first quit drinking, more than two years earlier, it had been nearly impossible to resist the temptation to hit a bar and drown my sorrows in tequila. As luck would have it, I'd picked a particularly bad time to quit. Two weeks into my life of sobriety, my mother had shown up at my doorstep-well, our doorstep, really, as Richard and I had been living together since my graduation-raving drunk and clearly at the height of mania. It was a stressful, exceedingly difficult experience that, as usual, culminated in Maggie refusing to take her meds and running away.  
  
I'd wanted a drink. I'd wanted it so badly I thought I might die if I didn't get one. So badly that a month after my last drink, I nearly went into physical alcohol withdrawal.  
  
And Richard held me.  
  
Through several long, feverish days and nights, he held me, whispering soothingly unintelligible sounds and promising-promising-that everything would be okay.  
  
And it was.  
  
"Yeah," I say finally. "It is." I search his eyes. "I don't need it anymore," I say confidently. "I have you."  
  
He nods, his brown eyes shining with happiness. He searches for words, then seems to change his mind and nods again.  
  
I swallow the last of my cider and roll onto my back, watching as the puffy white clouds scroll across the cobalt blue afternoon sky. A plane flies over, heading for destinations unknown. "Do you ever wonder where people are going?" I ask.  
  
He leans his head against mine, and together we watch the plane disappear into the blueness. "I don't know," he admits.  
  
"I do," I say, my voice far away. "I imagine it. While I'm working, or walking home. I think that maybe they're going to Paris, or London. Or maybe Tokyo. And then I wonder if they're going on vacation, or on a business trip, or if they're going home."  
  
"Why Paris or Tokyo?" Richard asks curiously. "Why not Philadelphia, or Minneapolis?"  
  
I shrug my eyebrows. "They don't have the same.mystique. And it's harder for your problems to follow you over water than land." I close my eyes, picturing. "I used to pretend I was Madeline. Walking through Paris in a straight line and always getting into trouble." I laugh at the memory. "I took French in high school just so that when I inevitably moved to Paris, I'd be able to fit right in. Seemed like the only place I would fit right in." I shake my head slightly. "Inevitable, huh?"  
  
"I didn't know you wanted to travel."  
  
"Not around here," I say deprecatingly. "To Europe though, and Asia. I used to dream about living abroad when I was little. Someplace Maggie couldn't follow."  
  
There's a long, painful silence. "When you graduate med school we'll go to Paris," Richard says suddenly.  
  
I turn my head to look at him, surprised. "Really?"  
  
"Yeah," he says, turning his face to meet mine. "You and me on top of the Eiffel Tower? Eating escargots in bistros on the Champs Elysées?"  
  
I scrunch up my nose. "Escargots?"  
  
"Or croissants," he laughs. "Or pastries."  
  
"Pastries is more like it." I kiss his cheek. "So, in the more immediate future, what are we doing tonight?"  
  
Richard rolls over onto his stomach, looking at me playfully. "That's for me to know, and you to find out," he says childishly.  
  
I roll my eyes in jest. "Grow up."  
  
"I will," he says seriously, his eyes watching me intensely. "Tonight."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"The heart may freeze, or it can burn. The pain will ease if I can learn there is no future, there is no past-I live this moment as my last. There's only us, there's only this. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way, no day but today." --Jonathan Larson  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"That was amazing," I sigh, as Richard unlocks the door to our apartment. "I wish I could sing."  
  
"I don't," he jokes.  
  
Richard's surprise evening consisted of sushi at my favorite Japanese restaurant and third row seats to Rent. "How did you get those tickets?" I marvel again, flopping onto the worn-out couch and leafing through the playbill.  
  
"I have my ways," he says mysteriously. I frown at him, but he grins impishly, and I can't help smiling.  
  
"Why am I so lucky?" I wonder out loud.  
  
He laughs. "Lucky that you married a man with such excellent connections, or lucky that you married me."  
  
I find myself lost in his eyes again. "Lucky that I married you," I say, my voice serious.  
  
He leans down to kiss me, our lips melting into one as if they belong that way. He slides his hands under my back and knees, lifting me into his arms. "Rich!" I shriek, as he carries me toward the bedroom.  
  
He nibbles at my neck. "Shh," he says, between kisses. "You'll wake the neighbors."  
  
"I don't care," I laugh, as he lays me down on the bed, and moves to fumble with the buttons on my blouse.  
  
"Good," he says, kissing gently down my chest. "Neither do I."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
...to be continued 


	2. Les Craintes de l'Avenir

Hi everyone! I just wanted to thank everybody who reviewed-I appreciate them so much!! And to my fellow Rentheads.a funny Renthead sidebar. I was on the metro in Paris this summer, singing La Vie Boheme to a friend. Not very loudly, but I was singing it, and this random person standing next to me turned to me and said, "Are you a Renthead?" It was a bit freaky :). Anywayz.  
  
Thanks for your patience, also, I'm sorry it took me so long to update. This week was hell.I mean, midterms, also know as the dumbest idea ever!  
  
As always, R n R, please!!! Thank you!!  
  
Les Ravages: Les Craintes de l'Avenir  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"The mind is its own place, and it can make a hell of heaven or a heaven of hell." --John Milton  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
May is a crazy month. There are finals to pass, nursing shifts to work, sleepless nights spent studying and desperate phone calls from my little brother in Florida-Maggie, as usual, has chosen an excellent time to disappear.  
  
Something I can't worry about now.  
  
And, in the process of cramming every last detail about the human brain into my own brain, I manage to get sick. Really sick-waking up nauseous every morning and excusing myself from 8 am classes to run to the bathroom and throw up.  
  
"Are you okay?" one of the OB nurses asks me one Sunday morning as I emerge from the bathroom, my face white as a sheet.  
  
"Yeah," I assure her, walking towards the water fountain. "Thanks, Sandra, I'm fine. I just can't seem to shake this stomach virus." I lean over and press the button, eagerly gulping down the cool water.  
  
"How long have you been throwing up?" she asks with concern.  
  
I shrug, heading towards the delivery room, where I've just been paged. "Week and a half, maybe? I don't know. I'm not getting much sleep; my finals are next week."  
  
"Just in the mornings?" Sandra asks. She's getting at something. I stop, staring at her. "Are you late? You think maybe you're pregnant?"  
  
"No," I say very quickly, although my period is two weeks late. "No."  
  
"No possibility of that?" Sandra laughs, winking.  
  
"I'm on the pill," I stutter.  
  
I must look absolutely stricken, because Sandra stops laughing. "The pill's not 100% effective, Abby," she says gently. "You know that."  
  
I take a deep, shaky breath. "I have to go," I say, indicating the delivery room. "I was." I don't finish my sentence, turning and pushing my way through the swinging doors.  
  
"You're late," Dr. Coburn barks as I snap my gloves on.  
  
"I'm sorry," I say softly.  
  
I'm not much help as the baby is delivered, a beautiful eight pound, four ounce girl. "Congratulations," I say weakly to the mother, who is beaming. She barely notices me.  
  
"Thank you," she says vaguely, stroking the baby's cheek, the agony of the last half hour forgotten. "She's so beautiful," she coos.  
  
My hands are trembling as I strip my gloves off, walk shakily out of the delivery room. My mind keeps wandering back to Sandra's question. Pregnant? I couldn't be.  
  
I'd decided years earlier that I couldn't have a baby. Ever. I'd been 15- years-old, and my mother had disappeared for three weeks, off with some guy she'd met in a bar. It wasn't the first time she'd done it, and it wasn't the first time I'd been forced to take my younger brother to school and make sure he stayed out of trouble and go grocery shopping and clean the house and cook dinner, but it was the first time I was old enough to realize that I wasn't supposed to be doing this. Mom had been on her medication for more than six months. She'd gotten a good job, and had finally started acting like a mother.  
  
And then everything fell apart.  
  
During long, sleepless nights spent worrying about her and Eric and the future, I wondered if my own adulthood would end up this way. If I would be bipolar, or maybe my kids would. I pictured the future-me, as Maggie. Or perhaps taking care of a miniature Maggie.  
  
I couldn't do it. It was too frightening. So, much as I loved children, I'd vowed then and there never to have kids. It was why I'd become an OB nurse-that way, I could always be around babies without risking giving birth to my own.  
  
It was something I'd never discussed with Richard, and something I hoped would not come up for a long time. I wasn't sure of his feelings toward children, but I was pretty sure they wouldn't match mine.  
  
Which is why this particular prospect is so terrifying.  
  
But it was just a guess, I remind myself. Just a wild, out-of-nowhere supposition. I probably just have a stomach virus. That's all. Just a stomach virus.  
  
It'll be okay.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
But two weeks later, when I still haven't gotten my period, I start to panic. Fortunately, Richard isn't around for much of this-our schedules haven't coincided at all lately, and the rare moments I'm home, he's usually working. Much as I miss him, it's a relief.  
  
After finals are over, and I can concentrate solely on nursing, I can't ignore it any longer. While Richard is working, I go out to CVS and buy a pregnancy test.  
  
I could ask someone at work to take a blood sample for me, but I don't. Instead, I sit on my bed, alone, shaking, as I wait for the timer to go off.  
  
It ticks down very slowly. 2:47.2:46.2:45. I realize I'm holding my breath.  
  
It'll be negative, I remind myself. And I'll feel so much better when I know for sure.  
  
But then there comes that little voice of doubt in the back of my head-what if it isn't? And the worst part is, I have a very strong feeling that the voice is right.  
  
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hands trembling, I reach to turn off the timer, then walk very slowly into the bathroom. Please, God, I pray. Please, I've never asked for anything before.  
  
Unfortunately, God is not on my side, and a happy little plus sign greets me.  
  
"Oh, my God," I whisper, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Oh, oh, God. No.oh, God." My knees give out beneath me, and I collapse to the hard tile floor.  
  
"No, God, please," I wail into the empty air. Empty apartment.  
  
Not so empty womb.  
  
How could I have let this happen?  
  
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."  
  
But God isn't listening.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Happiness is not a reward-it is a consequence. Suffering is not a punishment-it is a result." --Robert Ingersoll  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I pretend to be asleep when Richard returns home a few hours later. I know he'll be exhausted after 14 hours at the hospital, and will not be all that inclined to wake me up and talk. I also have a 6 am shift tomorrow, which means I could, conceivably go to bed at nine.  
  
Maybe.  
  
"Abby," he says, slipping into our bedroom quietly. I can feel him standing above me, watching me. I will my eyes not to blink.  
  
I can feel him smiling. His lips brush against my forehead, and he climbs into bed beside me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist. Within minutes, he is breathing deeply and evenly.  
  
My mind is racing; my heart beating out of control. I am shivering despite the warmth of the June evening, my body trembling violently. Richard unconsciously pulls me closer, his face nuzzling against my shoulder, and though I'd like to accept the comfort his sleeping figure offers, I just can't. Not tonight.  
  
I slip carefully out of his arms, tip-toeing silently into the living room. Outside the window, people are strolling down the city block, enjoying the beginnings of summer. I sink down into the corner of the room, allowing the tears to stream down my cheeks.  
  
Fear-mind-numbing, heart-stopping fear-grips me, and I can barely breathe. The life growing inside of me suddenly feels like it may kill me, and I clutch my stomach, burying my face in my knees. I've never been so scared in my life.  
  
Richard would want the baby, I realize, with complete and utter certainty. If I told him, he'd be delighted. Absolutely thrilled. He wouldn't understand my fears; in fact, he'd probably try to talk me out of them.  
  
He wouldn't understand.  
  
The moonlight gives the darkened room a spooky glow as I try to think rationally. Calmly. With shaking hands, I push my hair out of my eyes, and list my options. Detaching myself from the reality that this is me I'm talking about, my life, my baby, I make a mental flow chart.  
  
Option A. I can tell Richard about the baby; wake him up right now, and tell him the news. I can quit med school, or at least take a couple years off, and go back when the baby's old enough. We'll have a perfect little family-just the three of us.  
  
But Option A, unfortunately has several sub-options, all of which are out of my control. The baby might be bipolar, in which case I will be subjecting a poor, innocent child to the hell of the disease, and raising another version of my mother. I might become bipolar, which would result in my poor baby enduring my childhood.  
  
I can see it so clearly. Richard, fed up, leaving. My poor little girl forced to take care of me and her grandmother, knowing that she, too, will likely end up like that.  
  
The baby might be fine, I remind myself.  
  
But it's too scary. What if the baby isn't fine? The reality is that she or I will likely have some mental illness, and it's just too frightening to consider what life will be like for her, and me, if we do.  
  
I can't do it. I just can't.  
  
Option B. I can tell Richard about the baby, and convince him of my fears. He'll agree with me-the possibility of raising a bipolar child is just too scary. We can either choose together to have an abortion, or we can give the baby up for adoption. Everything will be okay.  
  
But I know Richard will never consent to an abortion. He won't consent to an adoption, either, and even if he did, who will adopt a child with a family history of severe mental illness? What if the baby ends up in foster care, abused and molested and malnourished.  
  
Stop. Stop it, Abby.  
  
The real problem with Option B is that it is a pipe dream. Richard will never understand my doubts. Option B is the way I would like Option A to go. But I know it won't, and therefore I can't even attempt it.  
  
That leaves Option C. I can get an abortion. Without telling Richard, or my brother, or my mother, or my coworkers, I can go to some far-off little clinic and kill my baby.  
  
Suddenly, Option C seems to be the only way. It is the only way I have control, the only way I won't be scared.  
  
It's the only thing I can do.  
  
And with that, the decision seems to be made. I clutch a hand to my stomach, gasping for air. I'm going to abort my child.  
  
It's the only thing I can do.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"No passion so effectively robs the mind of all its powers of reasoning and acting as fear." --Edmund Burke  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I stare at the television absently, barely paying attention to the corny late night movie. The flickering lights are vaguely comforting, as is the low, gentle murmur of conversation. The news of a shooting in a Chicago suburb is perversely soothing. Good to know that other people are sinning, that other people are hurting.  
  
What is it about Americans and bad news? What is it that we like so much about watching other people's pain?  
  
I hug a throw pillow to my chest, although the mere act of holding the quilted pillow is making me sweat. July in our poorly air conditioned apartment can be hell, and this year's Independence Day Heat Wave is worsening my already unbearable insomnia.  
  
Of course, that might have more to do with an upcoming appointment at the Evanston Women's Health Clinic. And the fact that I've mentioned neither the appointment nor my pregnancy to my husband.  
  
Holding an unlit cigarette between my fingers, which have been shaking for the three weeks I've known about my pregnancy, I review my plan for tomorrow. Just after Richard leaves for his 36 hour shift, at 6 AM, I will drive to Evanston. I'll do it, drive back home, rest for a few hours, then go in for my own shift in OB.  
  
And everything will be okay.  
  
Although, the fact that I can't specify what "it" is seems a crystal clear indication that it won't be.  
  
I've talked to hundreds of women about abortions. I've offered explanations, advice, comfort to teenagers and rape victims, scared young women and overwhelmed mothers. I've been a shoulder to cry on, a place to turn. A refuge.  
  
Yet when it comes to myself, I have no words of comfort to offer. No advice.  
  
I just don't know what else to do.  
  
Tears flood my eyes, and when I reach to wipe them, I realize I am still clutching a cigarette. Nicotine. I need nicotine. I search around me for a lighter.  
  
Alcohol.  
  
I need alcohol.  
  
But I'm not going to do that again. No matter what.  
  
I watch, transfixed, as my shaking hands mechanically flick open the lighter, as the spark ignites the small paper roll. "Abby?" a sleepy voice asks from the doorway.  
  
I compose my face quickly, then turn to watch him walk toward me. "Hi," I say, offering a weak smile. "Sorry, did I wake you?"  
  
"No," he assures me, sitting down beside me, rubbing his weary-looking face.  
  
I nod quickly, nervously. "Can't sleep?" I try.  
  
"I should ask you the same thing," he says. He sounds suspicious-or maybe that's just my guilty conscience.  
  
"It's too hot," I say dully.  
  
There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence. I can feel Richard's eyes studying my face, and I squirm under his stare. "Rich."  
  
"What's going on, Abby?" he asks gently.  
  
"Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly.  
  
He reaches over to take the cigarette from between my fingers and stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "You said you were quitting," he reminds me.  
  
"I was," I sigh. I look at him. He is watching me with concern, and I quickly turn away. "I'm sorry," I say with resignation. "I just can't sleep with this heat, and I'm really tired."  
  
He nods, accepting my answer. "Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let's go to bed. We'll see if we can work out a better air-conditioning situation in the morning."  
  
Lacing my fingers through his, I allow him to pull me up off the couch, feeling my sweaty thighs stick to the leather. "Ugh."  
  
He laughs. "Tomorrow. I'll call from work."  
  
I know he will. He's never lied to me before.  
  
So why am I lying to him now?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
.to be continued 


End file.
